The Cybertruck Comes to Dusty Gulch - A Special Dispatch from the Ratty News

By Roderick Whiskers McNibble, Chief Investigative Correspondent

There are times when a reporter must decide between remaining at the scene of a developing crisis or seeking refreshment.

I have always maintained that a properly nourished correspondent is a more effective correspondent. Besides, Trevor and Dracula the Emu appeared to have matters well in hand.

The two were working feverishly on the urgent repairs to the WDP system. The sonic pineapples stood poised for deployment, and nobody was prepared to say precisely how much longer the emergency arrangements could be relied upon.

There was a certain tension in the air.

Dusty McFookit was coordinating operations underground, the townsfolk were keeping a wary eye on developments, and Trevor's expression suggested that anyone interrupting his work with a trivial question might shortly find themselves having volunteered for something unpleasant.

I decided that this was an excellent opportunity to visit the CWA. It was preferable to the fare being cooked at Dusty McFookit's place by Tony the Emu. 

A cup of tea and a scone seemed entirely reasonable under the circumstances.

Besides, if there was anything happening in Dusty Gulch that I did not already know about, Mavis Thomson was generally a good person to ask. I donned my best fedora, the one with the feather, put on my best coat and headed out of my burrow. 

I found her in the CWA rooms, where she was in the middle of a conversation concerning the usual matters of community importance. We sat down together over a cup of tea and discussed the state of the township, the general uncertainty surrounding WDP, and the quality of the scones.

For a few minutes, the world seemed almost normal. 

Then Mavis glanced towards the window.  It was a fleeting movement, but my whiskers noticed. She put down her cup.

"Excuse me, Roderick. There's something I need to attend to."

Before I could enquire what might possibly be more urgent than a perfectly good cup of tea, she was gone.

Now, I am not a rat given to unnecessary suspicion, as you know. However, a lifetime in investigative journalism has taught me that when someone abandons a hot cup of tea without explanation, something is usually afoot.

I finished my mouthful, set down my cup and followed.

Outside, Mavis had joined several members of the CWA. They were speaking quietly, with the sort of concentrated seriousness normally associated with a difficult committee meeting or the discovery that someone had altered the lamington recipe.

They appeared to be waiting for something.

I followed their gaze towards the airstrip.

And then I heard it.

The sound began as a distant rumble, growing steadily louder until the corrugated iron roofs of Dusty Gulch began to vibrate. Loose papers lifted from verandas. A dog took exception to the sky. Somewhere in the distance, a horse expressed an opinion.

I looked up.

Descending towards the airstrip was an enormous orange biplane.

 The aircraft came down onto the strip in a cloud of dust.

Its engines wound down.

For a moment, the township fell silent.

Then the cargo hold began to open.

I edged closer.

Inside sat a vehicle unlike anything I had seen on a Dusty Gulch road.

Angular. Metallic. Futuristic.

A Tesla Cybertruck.

It was secured inside the aircraft as though it were the most ordinary cargo in the world.

I looked at the vehicle.

I looked at the aircraft.

I looked at Mavis Thomson.

Mavis appeared entirely untroubled.

This, I thought, was becoming interesting. Tesla Cybertrucks are banned in Australia.  So this was a tad peculiar. Of course, the other issue is that some of them can fly and it must be said that we at the Gazette reported on a not dissimilar situation with flying outdoor toilets earlier this year. It is unknown if Elon Musk has utilsed WDP for the cybertrucks, but it is a question that must be asked. 

Newspaper reports confimed the ban only yesterday.  

I intend to keep digging and will report updates as I uncover the truth. 

The unloading operation proceeded with astonishing efficiency. There were no inspectors armed with clipboards, no arguments over vehicle dimensions, and no officials demanding to know whether the vehicle complied with the relevant Australian standards.

Due to the reality distortion field currently playing havoc with Dusty Gulch, the cybertruck now appeared to be unloading from the nose cargo bay of the plane. 

I found this more suspicious than the aircraft or the cargo itself.

The Cybertruck was lowered onto the airstrip. Its stainless-steel body gleamed in the sunlight, and for a moment I could see my own whiskered reflection in its angular side.

A door opened.

Someone climbed inside.

The vehicle gave a low mechanical hum, and its wheels began to turn. Then, without ceremony or explanation, it drove away.

I hurried after it, but the dust rose in a thick cloud. By the time I could see clearly again, the Cybertruck had vanished.

No fanfare.

No announcement.

No handover ceremony.

Not even a receipt.

All that remained was a promotional flyer caught against a fence post, fluttering in the breeze.

I retrieved it.

The headline was unmistakable:

TESLA CYBERTRUCK — AUSTRALIA EDITION

The promotional material advertised a vehicle fully kitted out with everything a Cybertruck would need to survive in Dusty Gulch.

There were references to specialised equipment, Australian environmental adaptations and a collection of modifications that appeared rather more elaborate than anything required for a leisurely drive to the Dusty Dingo Pub.

I examined the flyer carefully.

The vehicle seemed to have been designed with the local environment very much in mind.

Whether this meant protection against the elements, the wildlife, or the more unpredictable consequences of travelling through Dusty Gulch, I could not say.

It was then that I noticed the open window of the CWA meeting room.

Mavis Thomson's laptop was still on the table. Beside it lay a small note, apparently overlooked in the haste of departure.

It contained just three words.

Hope this helps.

Beneath them were the initials:

EM

I stared at the note.

Then I looked towards the airstrip, where the enormous orange biplane was preparing to depart.

I checked the flyer again.

AUS 007.

I considered the initials.

I considered the aircraft.

I considered the extraordinary efficiency with which the vehicle had been unloaded and driven away.

I tucked the flyer into my notebook.

In the meantime, Trevor and Dracula are still working on WDP, the sonic pineapples remain poised, and the future of Dusty Gulch is as uncertain as ever.

This is Roderick (Whiskers ) McNibble, signing out on what has been a very strange day in Dusty Gulch.